


you look good in my shirt

by alotofthingsdifferent



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Clothes Sharing, Long-Distance, M/M, Skype Sex, dirty texting, sorry i hate the word sexting lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 23:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13328769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/pseuds/alotofthingsdifferent
Summary: He and Ronan send dirty texts sometimes -- well, mostly it's on Ronan's end, Lovett always ends up making a joke out of it and instead of getting off they end up laughing until they cry. But this is -- Lovettwantsthis, he realizes, and he looks down at the shirt he's wearing,Ronan’sshirt, and he suddenly needs to be in private like, immediately.





	you look good in my shirt

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first fic in this fandom and I’m NERVOUS! Anyway, thanks to those of you who encouraged and enabled me, and to Bri for the quick beta! 
> 
> Hand-wavy stuff about travel schedules and pod recordings. Fiction is fun!
> 
> Title shamelessly stolen from Keith Urban.
> 
> Keep this between us, please! The fourth wall is very important to me.

For Lovett, leaving New York is always bittersweet. His budding media empire is waiting for him back home in LA, of course, and his Crooked people are as close to family as it gets, but leaving Ronan sucks more every time he has to do it. 

He packs quietly, not bothering to fold his shirts or bunch his socks, looking up every few minutes to watch Ronan sleep. The slow rise and fall of his bare chest is mesmerizing, and Lovett would like nothing more than to climb back under the covers and curl up next to him for the next thirty years or so. He sighs dramatically and shoves his last shirt into the pile, next to a pair of inside-out maroon pants and one of the three black long-sleeves he’d worn while he was here. He’s zipping his suitcase closed when he spots Ronan’s basket of laundry to be washed (which, for Ronan, is usually a collection of shirts he wore for an hour, _maybe_ two.) Before he can stop to think about it, he reaches in and snatches three of them from the basket and tucks them into this carry-on. They’re all some variation of gray, so the chances of Ronan even noticing are slim, and Lovett’s feeling a little weepy about leaving. He knows the shirts smell like Ronan, and something about it makes him feel a little better about having to walk out of here and get on a plane to fly back across the country.

“Babe,” Lovett says quietly, leaning over Ronan to brush a kiss to his forehead. He nuzzles his nose against Ronan’s temple and fights the urge to text Favs and Tommy to tell them he’s never coming back, not ever. “I gotta go.”

Ronan hums, his hand coming to rest on Lovett’s hip. He’s tracing lazy circles on Lovett’s skin with this thumb; it’s very distracting, and Lovett tells him so. “Good,” Ronan says, smiling sleepily. “Maybe you’ll forget that you have to leave.”

Lovett kisses him, cups Ronan’s jaw in his hand and presses their lips together again and again, until he finally has to pull back, leaning in so their foreheads are touching. “Just a few more days,” Lovett promises. “Then you can whisk me away to Europe and have your dirty way with me.”

Ronan laughs, and it’s music to Lovett’s ear. “Miss you already,” he says, soft, and Lovett’s chest aches a little. 

“Stop getting all sappy,” he says, smacking a kiss on Ronan’s cheek. “I’ll text you when I get home.” He hauls his bag over his shoulder and takes one last look. “Love you,” he says.

“Now who’s being sappy,” Ronan says with a grin, and Lovett flips him off. “Love you too, babe. See you soon.”

Yeah, Lovett thinks. _Soon_.

~

He oversleeps on Wednesday morning, because of course he does, and the buzzing of his phone, a million texts from Tommy asking where he is, gets him out of bed. He rifles through his drawers for something to wear -- fucking Delta still has his fucking bag -- but when he sees the gray sleeve of Ronan's henley sticking out of his carry-on, he yanks it out of the bag and pulls it over his head. It’s soft against his skin, the faint smell of Ronan’s cologne still clinging to the fabric. It makes him feel warm all over, but he doesn’t have time to think about it. He just runs a hand through his hair, puts his glasses on, and heads out the door.

 _i’m coming chill_ he sends Tommy, and hopes he remembered to put gas in his car.

~

His phone starts buzzing against his leg halfway through the livestream. He knows better than to pull it out -- he could maybe get away with it if Favs were here, but Tommy has his Game Face on, and Lovett knows better than to start texting when they're talking about big important things. When they sign off, Lovett leans back in his chair and pulls out his phone to check his messages.

His many, many messages.

All from Ronan. Huh.

 _nice shirt_ the first one says -- Lovett bites his lower lip to keep from smiling. Something about Ronan noticing makes his pulse kick up a bit -- _thief_.

And then:  
_too many buttons done up, though_ and _i can see your chest hair, jesus Jon_

_you look so good_

_miss you already_

_fuck, I just wanna_

Lovett can feel his face heating up. He closes out of the messages and clears his throat. "I need Diet Coke," he announces, and Tommy gives him a look, one eyebrow raised.

"Lovett, you just got here literally half an hour ago. Can it wait?”

"Nope,” he says, popping the _p_. “I'm still on vacation time, Tommy, I need to adjust.” He waves a hand before disappearing out of the office. 

_i haven't even read all of these yet, do i need to be alone when i do?_ he asks Ronan, anticipation thrumming beneath his skin when the typing bubbles pop up.

_unless you think tommy wants to see you get your hand on your dick, yeah, probably._

Lovett sucks in a sharp breath. He and Ronan send dirty texts sometimes -- well, mostly it's on Ronan's end, Lovett always ends up making a joke out of it and instead of getting off they end up laughing until they cry. But this is -- Lovett _wants_ this, he realizes, and he looks down at the shirt he's wearing, _Ronan’s_ shirt, and he suddenly needs to be in private like, immediately.

Lovett thumbs through the rest of Ronan's messages -- all some variation of how hot Lovett looks wearing Ronan's shirt, how Ronan wishes the second and third button had been undone, how he wants to push the shirt up over Lovett's belly, kiss his hips, _get my mouth lower_. Lovett's sweating a little, heat coiling at the base of his spine, and fuck, he wishes he'd have called in sick today.

 _i’m recording_ Lovett types, then groans when Tommy texts him to get back to work. Another message from Ronan pops up -- a photo this time, of Ronan cupping his dick through a pair of tommyjons, dark navy against his smooth, pale skin. Lovett curses Tommy Vietor's fucking work ethic and blows out a breath, trying to collect himself. But Ronan doesn't let up. 

_wanna fuck you while you're wearing that_ he says, and if this keeps up, Lovett's going to have a serious problem walking back into the office.

 _wait for me_ he sends back. _give me an hour_.

Recording is the worst. He's fidgety, more than normal, and Tommy tells him to stop bouncing his knee at least 8 times. His fucking phone keeps vibrating, and when they finally, _finally_ , finish, he rushes out with barely a goodbye thrown over his shoulder. His messages are full of Ronan in various states of undress -- his shirt rucked up, one hand resting on his belly; his shirt off, one arm above his head and his face turned into his bicep; the waistband of his underwear tugged down, exposing the coarse patch of hair just above his dick.

 _skype?_ is the last message that comes through, and Lovett runs two stop signs in his neighborhood in his rush to get home. He locks the door behind him -- Tommy and Favs have keys, so he sends sock on the door, stay away in their private Slack channel -- and heads straight to his bedroom. Once he gets there, he just kind of. Sits on the edge of the bed, chewing his lip. There's no question he's turned on -- Ronan is gorgeous laid out like that, like a feast waiting for Lovett to devour him-- but also, Ronan is _gorgeous_ , and it’s a not-so-little-known-fact that Lovett's a little self-conscious, is all. Seven years together and Lovett still switches the light off when clothes start coming off.

And so he’s still fully dressed when he Skypes Ronan, who is not fully dressed at all. He's got one hand down the front of his underwear, his eyes half-lidded, and he looks at Lovett with a sly grin that makes Lovett's toes curl. "Hey babe," Ronan says, his voice rough. 

"You're so hot it's gross," Lovett says, and Ronan laughs, bright and full. 

"Take your clothes off," Ronan replies, and Lovett shifts a little, grabs the back of his neck and squeezes. 

"Or you could just jerk off for me," Lovett suggests, but Ronan shakes his head, rolling his hips a little.

"Nope. Wanna jerk off _to_ you," he says. "Leave the shirt on, just -- c'mon, Lovett, get your dick out."

"Leave the shirt on," Lovett repeats, watching the way Ronan's eyes catch on his neck as he tugs at his collar. "You like this," he says, a little bit in awe. "You're into it. Me in your clothes. You're into it." 

"Fuck yes I am, Lovett, you look so _good_ ," Ronan says. "Why are you --" he sucks in a breath, his eyelids fluttering as he tightens his grip on his cock. -- "Don't you have some merch to wear or something?" 

"It smells like you," Lovett says, flat-out, because it's true, and Ronan groans, the sound loud in Lovett's quiet room. "I miss you already, you asshole, so I stole three of your fucking shirts, are you happy?"

"Please, Lovett, c'mon, take your pants off," Ronan pleads, so Lovett sets his laptop down next to him and lays back, popping the button on his jeans and shoving them down to his thighs. He's hard, aching a little from how long he's been waiting to get a hand on his dick, and it's a relief to wrap his fingers around it, squeeze just this side of too hard. "Lovett," Ronan's saying, far-off. "Lovett, I can't _see_ you." 

Lovett balances the laptop on his knees and raises his hips a little, fucking into his own fist. "Say something," he says. "Tell me I look ridiculous like this or something." 

"You look so fucking good, babe," Ronan says instead, and Lovett has to look away from the screen, turn his face into his shoulder. He gets a full whiff of Ronan then, and it makes his cock pulse in his hand. "Wearing my shirt like that, like you’re _mine_ , fucking -- Jon, I miss you too."

It's crazy-hot, the way Ronan is looking at him, this mixture of awe and want and love, and he can hear the wet sound of Ronan jacking off, the way his breath hitches every few seconds, especially when Lovett angles the camera downward so Ronan can see the hem of his shirt catch on the head of his cock.

"If you're this turned on by me in your shirt," Lovett pants, going for breezy but probably failing miserably, "just imagine if I'd taken your underwear instead." It’s meant to be a joke -- jokes Lovett can do, he’s _used_ to jokes, but it falls heavy on his ears, like a promise of things to come.

Ronan makes a strangled sound, and Lovett opens one eye, watching Ronan's back arch, his head tipped back and his mouth open. "I probably have a couple pairs in my drawer, now that I think about it," Lovett says, and that's it, that's that, Ronan's coming all over himself, going crazy on the screen thinking about Lovett in his clothes.

Lovett's own orgasm comes so soon after, it shocks him, makes his toes curl into his duvet and his teeth sink hard into his lower lip. He comes all over Ronan's shirt, and he's not even mad about it.

A few long minutes pass, just the sound of Ronan's blissed-out breathing, and then Lovett laughs quietly. "You really love yourself, huh? Seeing your shirt on someone else really got you going." 

Lovett knows Ronan loves him; they say it all the time, they've been together for _years_ , they’re probably common-law married in some states. But sometimes, this little voice in the back of the head makes him wonder why. Makes him press Ronan's buttons, just to see what he'll say.

"No," Ronan says, sitting up on his elbows. There's come drying on his stomach, and his face is flushed. He's fucking beautiful, and he's _Lovett’s_. "I love _you_.”

"Yeah, well," Lovett grumbles, trying not to smile. "Now there's come on my shirt."

Ronan grins. " _My_ shirt." 

"Details," Lovett says, waving a hand, but he's smiling for real now. "That was good. For me, I mean, that was good for me." _Was it good for you?_ he wants to ask, even though he already knows the answer. It's sitting there right in front of him, in living color. 

"Me too," Ronan says, and Lovett's emotions are working in overdrive right now, so he knows it's time to call it a night before he does something stupid like propose over Skype with come on his shirt.

"I'll text you tomorrow," he says, rolling his eyes when Ronan kisses two fingers and presses them to the screen (but secretly loving it because it's so fucking sweet). 

"Hey Lovett," Ronan says, before Lovett can hang up. Ronan's out of view of the camera, and when he comes back, he's got something in his hands. He holds it out, and Lovett bursts out laughing when he realizes. 

"You dick!" he says. "That's my favorite shirt!" 

"Maybe I'll wear it for you tomorrow," Ronan says, his voice suddenly an octave lower, and okay, yeah. 

Lovett can work with this.


End file.
